Runner's Companion.pdf - Free

Simon Wentworth (order #1132857) 9. . . new qualities . . .new qualities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .94The rain dripped down the back of my coat as I crouched in front of the dinky motor.“This is all your fault,” Sam growled behind me. “You worked with that Pachinko Mike, and everyoneknows he’s bad luck. Curses everyone around him—and everyone around those stupid enough to workwith him.”The Sound was choppy, the boat too small, and I could taste the salt spray running down my face.While we rocked on the waves, our target was sliding further away, running lights getting dim in thepersistent drizzle.“I think the boat’s leaking,” Mouse piped up, from the bow, where he’d been puking his guts up sincewe motored out of the docks. I closed my eyes, prayed for inspiration. A miracle. Divine intervention. Hell,dumb luck would do.“C’mon, Beaker, can’t you do something?” Piper asked, holding the tiny flashlight over my shoulder.“If you all would just shut up,” I muttered, peering closer at the engine, unrolling another length ofduct-tape. The boat had a small tool kit—a screwdriver, the duct-tape, and the flashlight that Piperwas trying to keep steady. Not exactly the cozy garage I had behind my house. I shouldn’t have takenthe job, not with stupid Sam, who had sworn it’d be just so easy. Everything’s all set. Got a boat, got ashaman, we’ll just sneak up and pinch the load before they even know what hit them. Just need someonewho can steer the boat…But Sam’s boat turned out to be a POS with an outboard motor and enough rust to qualify as achemical experiment. And his shaman had turned out to be a sea-sick fourteen year old.If I didn’t have a family at home, with an out-of-work dad and three younger siblings, I’d have toldSam where he could stick it. Hell, I would have told Pachinko Mike to stick it, him and his curse—not thatI believed there was a curse, but it’d trashed my rep—but there wasn’t a hell of a lot of work out there fora plus-sized troll woman in this skinny-assed human world. I could handle a gun, sure, but I wasn’t agun-bunny. I was a techie. Not a lot of work for a techie who stuck out of the crowd like I did.Muttering, I put down the tape, pulled the engine cord again. Nothing.“Fucking great,” Sam said. “You think some tape and a few hairpins will fix that? Some tech-wizyou are.”Hoping for patience, still holding out for that Divine intervention, I prayed.Saint Jude, Hope of the Hopeless, Pray for me.I pulled the cord again, then a third time. Still nothing. Frustrated, I hit the engine with a fist,imagining it was Sam’s face.It sputtered to life.I looked up at Sam, who was finally shocked into silence.“And that, you asshole, is what a tech-wizard does,” I said. “Next time, I pick the boat.”Runner’s Companion